


good politics

by flowermasters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Arranged Marriage, Childhood Friends, Consent Issues, F/M, First Time, Mommy Issues, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, Teenage Rebellion, Trust Issues, also she's over 18 in this don't worry, in summation: echo, intimacy issues, still it's totally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: “You think I’m acting like a spoiled brat.”No, of course not, sire,Echo should say.I could never think such a thing, would never dream of insulting you.“Is it that obvious?” she says instead, as she raises her cup to her mouth.





	good politics

**Author's Note:**

> Weird how in the season where I'm least satisfied with Becho (has anyone seen season 5 Bellamy? I sure do miss him), it spontaneously occurs to me that I should write Echo/Roan. Echo, sweetie, all the men on this show are bound to disappoint you.
> 
> Warnings for: Echo/Roan (obviously), pre-canon, sexual content, discussion of an arranged marriage, power imbalances (the nature of the game), slight age difference (Echo is an adult, albeit a young one!), mild consent issues in the sense that Echo freely gives consent and is an adult but is Going Through Some Things, Emotionally Speaking.
> 
> I listened to “Sink into the Floor” by Feng Suave, if anyone’s interested.

“I told my mother,” Prince Roan says, “that I would take no more visitors.”

He lies on his back in the center of his bed, tossing an apple lazily into the air and catching it each time it falls. His dark hair, loose from the braid he normally wears, spills across the furs covering the bed. He looks entirely too comfortable for his own good.

“I’m not here to visit,” Echo says, watching the red fruit fall. “The queen sent me to bring you your dinner.”

This gets Roan’s attention; he catches the apple and holds it, momentarily, as his gaze flicks to her. “Echo,” he drawls. “Your talents are being wasted if my mother has you bringing dinner trays.”

“Only for you,” Echo says. She resists the urge to snap: _do you want it or not?_

She can’t recall ever resenting a member of the royal family before. _Hainofa_ or not, Echo had been able to feel her dignity being chiseled away with every step she took as she carried the prince’s evening meal up the long flight of stairs to his chambers. The tray isn't heavy, but it's heavy enough. She’s used her talents for the queen, many times over, to avoid the fate of a maid. 

Roan’s chambers, she notes, are smaller than she’d expected. She’s never had reason to enter them before. Nevertheless, the room is still grand, boasting a high ceiling and several large windows that provide a view of the mountains. The bed, which takes up much of the space in the room, is larger than any Echo has ever had the privilege to sleep on; it could comfortably sleep three. The space is lit by the light of the low-hanging sun and several candles, and a fire molders in the hearth.

“Set it on the table,” Roan says, waving a hand to the square wooden table near the windows. Then he begins tossing the apple into the air again. 

Echo can feel his eyes on her as she moves to the table. “It’s your favorite,” she says. “Beef stew.”

“Mm,” Roan says. “My mother must think if I’m well-fed I’ll go to my fate willingly.”

“You’re getting married tomorrow,” Echo says, still facing away from him, straightening the fork on the tray. “Not executed. My lord.”

“My mother had my father executed.”

“For treason,” Echo points out, aware that she’s pushing her luck. She’s never talked back to Roan like this before. She’d never dare talk back to Nia this way. But he won’t have her head for a bit of insolence. She’s knocked him in the dirt enough times while sparring to know that much. He’ll grow angry, and petulant, but he’s always ready to prove himself in another bout.

“For sleeping with another woman,” Roan says, sounding almost amused. “That she happened to be a Trikru spy just salted the wound.”

Echo bites back her retort, grateful he can't see her expression. “Pour yourself a cup of wine,” Roan says, startling her. She glances over her shoulder, but he’s no longer looking at her; in fact, he’s no longer on the bed at all, but standing by the fireplace, prodding at the logs with a poker. She hadn’t even heard him get up, a testament to how quietly he’s capable of moving, when he wants to.

“As you wish,” Echo says. There’s already a half-empty cup of wine on the small table next to Roan’s bed, so she takes the empty cup from the tray and pours herself a few sips’ worth. Queen Nia wouldn’t want her drinking, indulging herself with the prince’s wine; but then, Queen Nia had not been entirely clear as to what she _did_ want Echo to do up here. 

_Take Roan his supper_ , she’d said, with hardly a glance at Echo as she drank her own wine from a glass. _See to it that my son decides to act his age before tomorrow._

“As I wish,” Roan muses, ambling towards the table. Now that Echo is paying attention to his movements, she can hear the soft pad of his bare feet against the stone floor. “I seem to get everything I wish for, with the exception of my impending marriage.”

Echo raises her eyebrows at him, but says nothing.

“You haven’t taken a sip,” Roan says, drawing up close to the table and reaching for the other cup. “You think I’m acting like a spoiled brat.”

 _No, of course not, sire_ , Echo should say. _I could never think such a thing, would never dream of insulting you._

“Is it that obvious?” she says instead, as she raises her cup to her mouth.

Roan huffs, amused. “You’re not half as good at concealing things as you think you are,” he says. “Maybe the queen is right to have you fetching me dinner.”

Something hot and acidic rises in Echo’s throat, anger and indignation and the sickly taste of embarrassment. “Perhaps,” she says. “She’s also right to marry you off to the highest bidder.”

Now Roan laughs openly, a gritty chuckle that startles her. A cool sweat prickles suddenly at her temples and upper lip, her own boldness frightening her. “Undoubtedly,” he agrees. “Punishing me and appeasing Ayop in one fell swoop is just good strategy.”

Ayop and Nia have long been rivals, though Ayop, a farmer and the leader of one of Azgeda’s southernmost villages, has never publicly challenged her; if he had, he’d have been dead long ago, and Azgeda possibly fractured in two as a result. But he has a daughter close to the prince’s age, and had been unable to resist the offer of seeing his future grandchildren as the princes and princesses of Azgeda. 

And so in the morning Roan will be brought, possibly kicking and screaming, to the altar. He’s older than her and yet Echo feels, as she watches him drink his wine down in one gulp, like she’s dealing with a particularly stubborn child.

“So you can see that this is a sound political move,” Echo says. “It has nothing to do with punishing you for something.”

Roan rolls his eyes and pours himself more wine. He’s standing close enough that Echo has to shift to avoid his elbow. All she does is shift, though she knows she should give him the wide berth he is accustomed to. “Have you _met_ Ayop’s daughter?”

“And here I was expecting you to say you were planning to marry for love,” Echo says dryly, and Roan laughs again.

“I’m not concerned with her looks,” he says, “although she hasn’t got much to offer there. No, I resent being forced to marry a meek little girl who’s done nothing but stare at me, cow-eyed, every time we’ve met.”

“Little girl,” Echo scoffs. “She’s my age or older.”

“Well,” Roan says, “you’re different.”

There’s no retort to be made for this. Echo _is_ different from a simple farmer’s daughter, though she may have been born one. _May_ have; she can’t quite remember how her parents earned their bread anymore. It’s been so long since she had reason to think of it, longer still since she allowed herself to. 

“Although,” Roan says, raising his eyebrows at her briefly before walking away, “I can remember when you were a girl, and you stared at me, too. Not unlike the way she did.”

“If you say so, Prince Roan,” Echo says. Her cheeks are hot. Of course she remembers how she used to watch Roan, how she used to study him when he wouldn’t notice—or, apparently, when she only thought he wouldn’t. He was five or six years older than her, and had been a tall, lanky boy of fourteen when she was first brought to Troy; she had been watchful of him even then, curious, and had remained watchful for reasons she hadn’t understood then and refuses to acknowledge now.

Roan walks around the table to stand facing the windows. Echo eyes the shape of him for a moment in the orange light, his broad shoulders and solid stance, though she’s not sure why. It’s not as though she’s sizing up a threat. “You should eat something,” she says. “The wine will make you sick.”

“I’ve got a strong stomach,” Roan says. “Drink with me, and don’t change the subject. I’m in the mood to wallow in my misery.”

“I wasn’t sent here to help you with that.” 

“And yet here you are, still,” Roan says dryly. “Misery loves company.”

Echo takes a sip of her wine, draining the cup. Then she pours herself another small helping, though she’s not sure why. Perhaps only because it has been commanded. She doesn’t like the bitter taste—she’s not used to it the way Roan must be. He’s been imbibing since he was a boy, getting drunk enough to make a fool of himself at more than one feast. Echo has rarely been allowed the luxury of a loss of control, and has even more rarely taken advantage of the few opportunities given to her. 

“So why were you sent here, Echo?” Roan asks. “Are we supposed to rehearse? Does my mother not trust that I can remember my part in the ceremony?”

“She sent me here to talk to you after your disagreement this morning,” Echo says, approaching the windows. It feels strange, talking to his back like this, though it pleases her slightly that he’s comfortable enough to turn his back on her so freely. “And probably to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

Roan glances at her as she comes to stand beside him. He’s smirking, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She tightens her grip on her cup, squeezing it, then takes another sip. “I’m wounded.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Echo says. “The marriage won’t stop you from doing anything. It won’t harm you in any way. You’ll be free to come and go as you do now, sleep with who you like, and either way, one day you’ll be king of Azgeda.”

“I won’t be truly free until I’m king,” Roan says. “No, that’s the wrong word. I won’t be in control until then.” 

He’s looking out the window now, the setting sun reflected in his dark eyes. Several stories below, Echo can hear the bustling of the villagers, their chatter and the trundling wheels of their carts. Preparations are already underway downstairs for the prince’s wedding day. She’s known Roan since he was a boy, big-eared but roguishly charming; now he is a man, a handsome, wolfish one, but still he looks young in this light. 

He gazes out as though he’s searching for something on the horizon, but they both know he’ll find only wilderness in that direction. An escape, but a foolish one to take. 

“You’ll be in control of everything you see,” Echo says. “And you’ll be a good king.”

“I’ll be in control of my own destiny,” Roan says, looking at her. “Maybe you know what it feels like. To desire that.”

Echo resists the urge to take another sip of wine. “My destiny is my people’s destiny, and my people’s destiny is my destiny.” 

Roan snorts. He does take another sip. “Did your _seda_ teach you to recite that? Your destiny is for my mother to decide. We’re alike in that way.”

“We’re not,” Echo says automatically. Her cheeks heat again. She doesn’t break eye contact. With Roan in the fickle mood he’s clearly in, showing deference might offend him even more than her rudeness.

“Because you actually _want_ to serve my mother’s whims,” Roan surmises, still meeting her gaze evenly. “I think you know a lot about wanting, whether you’ll admit it or not.”

Echo swallows. She feels seen in a way she never has before, at least not by Roan. It’s always been her job to blend into the shadows unless called upon to act, and she’s always done her job well. Roan hasn’t studied her like this in the years since she became a spy, and he certainly never so much as glanced her way when she was a girl, just a novice who watched his every move, praying to be taught something, to be made useful, to be _noticed_. She has to wonder when he began to see her, or if it’s only now, the night before the wedding he doesn’t want, that he even can.

“I don’t want for anything,” she says.

“You’re a bad liar,” Roan retorts, “for a spy.”

He sits his wine on the windowsill with a soft clatter and then he kisses her, not aggressively as she might have expected—he just kisses her. While he doesn’t seem hesitant, the distance he holds himself from her suggests that he expects to be rebuffed. What surprises her, really, is that she kisses him back. 

With her free hand she reaches up, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. He breaks the kiss, calloused fingers brushing her wrist as he takes her cup from her hand. “You’ve done your duty,” Roan says. “Why are you still here, Echo?”

“I was sent,” Echo says. She sounds breathless and loathes him for it, spoiled, arrogant son that he is, unwilling to make the slightest of sacrifices to prevent an _uprising_ —

“That’s not what I asked,” he says, smug, and kisses her again.

He peels her furs off of her where she stands—she has to hold on to the windowsill to step out of her boots without falling over. She wants to curse at him for this indignity. She’s never been this angry about indignities before; she’s always suffered them silently, swallowed them down like a tonic and used them as fuel to do better, to _be_ better. But tonight, the night before the prince’s wedding, she’s _angry_.

Despite this—or maybe because of it—she lets him hoist her up and carry her to the bed, her legs clenching tight at his waist and her arms wrapped around his neck. He bears her down onto the furs, and the weight of him on top of her is satisfying in the same way that pressing on a bruise is. He ruts against her with a frustrating slowness and laughs at her when she begins to fumble with the tie of his pants. That laughter tapers off when she takes him in her hand, her touch light, taunting. Curious.

The furs trap the heat of their bodies, and Echo is sweating, restless, as Roan bats her hands away. “Take off your pants,” he tells her, so she does. Then his hand is between her thighs, his fingers easing into her, and she gasps, shocked. The noise is loud; the room is quiet except for their breathing and the renewed crackle of the fire. She’s not sure what’s more surprising, that he’s touching her like this—carefully, while watching her, like he’s waiting for something—or that she likes it. She feels almost anxious under the scrutiny, pressure mounting until pleasure grips her suddenly, intensely, before receding. 

Afterwards, her skin burns even hotter, from a strange mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. His face is too close to hers as he hovers over her. The prince is not only seeing her in a way no one has ever seen her; he’s _watching_ her. 

Her childhood desire to be noticed occurs to her now. Under other circumstances it would be laughable. It’s preferable, really, to not be seen, to command attention only in the council room or on the battlefield, and then only for moments at a time. This is more than she could’ve possibly expected when she entered this room, and she still isn’t sure _what_ she expected. Or what she wanted.

He kisses her again, and that makes things easier. It feels good. His hair is soft under her fingers, slightly damp at the temples where he’s sweating a little bit, too. And then her legs are parting again, tightening around his waist, but the unfamiliar heat of him against her thigh makes her tense up instinctively before she can force herself to relax again.

Roan must notice; he’d be a fool not to, or worse. She tries to hold on to him, twining her fingers in his hair, but he pulls away from her mouth anyway. “You know,” he says, raising his eyebrows at her, “you can still leave.”

Echo swallows. His tone betrays nothing; his eyes are narrowed slightly as he studies her. From Roan, this is kindness—no jokes, no cruel remarks. She could take advantage of it. If she wanted to. 

“No,” she says, her voice hoarse even to her own ears. “Just—do it like this.”

He doesn’t complain, just gives her space to move as she turns over. She should feel—shame, getting on her hands and knees like this, and she does, but it’s easier this way. She doesn’t have to look Roan in the eye when he shifts his weight behind her, when he puts his hands on her hips. She surprises herself by moaning when he tugs her closer and positions her how he wants her—softly, but certainly loudly enough to be heard.

“Are you sure?” he says.

 _Yes, my prince_ , she should say. No; she shouldn’t be here at all, let alone be doing this.

“Just do it already,” she says instead, and to his credit, Roan takes this order better than any other he’s ever been given.

It doesn’t hurt much, although Echo hadn’t realized she’d expected it to until now. Her _seda_ had explained things to her when she was young, but only the practical parts, and those parts never sounded as though they lent themselves to pleasure. The rest she’d learned over the years through whispers, jokes. The way men speak to her sometimes, when they don’t know who she is or what she’s capable of. Roan doesn’t speak now, and for that she’s grateful; the strange thrill she gets at hearing him groan under his breath scares her enough as it is. 

It’s surprisingly difficult to think, during; it’s difficult to do anything other than feel, to rock back against the sharp points of Roan’s hips as he thrusts, to breathe. Noises escape her, little gasps at the end of each inhale, but she doesn’t have enough control left to stop them. She feels as though she has no control left and yet she's moving, too, she's wanting.

Several more minutes of this and Roan pulls away, leaving Echo to stay like that for a few seconds, impatient and confused, until his hands at her hips urge her to turn over onto her back once more. She does, and from the tense look on his face, gets the idea—she takes him in hand, and shortly thereafter it’s over.

At least, she thinks it’s over—they both lie there panting for a few moments, and Roan’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his expression unreadable now as he holds himself above her, his weight braced on his hands on either side of her. He seems to be waiting for something again, but she doesn't know what, and the not knowing frightens her. Then he reaches for her, one hand moving to her thighs once more, and clarity seizes her, icy and sudden as a hard frost.

“That’s alright,” Echo says quickly, catching him loosely by the wrist.

Roan raises his eyebrows. “Suit yourself,” he says, before shifting to lie on his back next to her.

She eyes his profile as he gazes up at the ceiling; she can’t tell if she’s offended him or not. _I’m wounded_ , he’d said earlier, but he hadn’t meant it then. She knows Roan well, better almost than she knows anyone, but she has no frame of reference for this. She's out of her depth, but she's nothing if not adaptable.

The sun has set. It’s dark now, but the fire casts enough light that Echo is able to find her pants easily enough. Her boots she finds discarded by the window, which has been left cracked, letting in a draft that makes the candles sputter. She shuts the window with a thud, then tugs on her furs.

She hears a soft rustle behind her, but it’s just Roan pulling the blanket over himself. He lies on his back, one of his arms folded behind his head. He looks very handsome. A study in unconcern. This look Echo recognizes on him, and what once might have been irritating is instead steadying. A constant. 

In the other hand, he holds that damned apple again; he must have lost it somewhere on his too-big bed, or set it aside for later, but he's found it now. When he sees her raise her eyebrows at him, he offers it to her. “Hungry?” he asks.

Now he sounds like he’s taunting her; the familiar edge is back in his voice, though she’s not sure it ever left. Maybe it only softened, or she didn’t want to hear it. _I think you know a lot about wanting_ , he’d said earlier. _Whether you’ll admit it or not_. In a strange way, he’s challenging her.

“No,” Echo says, buckling her sword belt. “Thank you, sire.”

Roan studies her for a beat or two. This time, Echo does not flinch, just holds still, chin out, ready to pass inspection. “Back to your duty, I see,” Roan says dryly, gaze drifting back to the ceiling.

“Yes,” Echo says, though even now she wonders if she’d ever set it aside. Perhaps she had, for a few moments, but she’s always aware of it. With her clothes safely on and her sword strapped to her, the calm that comes over her is total, welcome, warming like a fur blanket. “My prince?”

“What,” Roan says.

“You won’t tell the queen about this,” Echo says. “Will you?”

Roan glances at her, then scoffs. “Fuck no,” he says.

For Echo, that truth could mean any number of things—Nia would punish her as she saw fit, depending largely on her mood. For Roan, it means much the same, though he's less likely to lose his head to his mother's displeasure. Echo inclines her own head. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning, sire.”

Roan says nothing, just waves a hand to indicate that she should leave. Echo raises her head; the prince’s gaze remains fixed on the ceiling as she moves toward the door, and she doesn’t try to catch his attention again.

In the morning, Roan may disappear, as he's wont, or be otherwise uncooperative; Echo knows this, as does the queen. If the ceremony goes poorly, Echo already knows her role—to slip behind Ayop and slit his throat. His daughter’s, too, if she must. The knowledge that she will do what she must sits comfortably within her, burying any doubts Echo didn’t realize until tonight that she had. She leaves the prince's room and walks quickly, purpose renewed, down the stairs.


End file.
